


Do You Like What You See? ~Part 2~

by Hollandoodle



Series: Do You Like What You See? [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Caught in a Storm, F/M, Fleeing to Winterfell, Maybe a touch of, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Two Shot, Voyeurism, Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: Another night, another evening spent cooped up in an inn.But at least he has his little bird to keep him company, and to keep his hands busy...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Adding the second part of my first series.
> 
> Or, the first chapter of the second part of my first series. Hmmm. Bear with me, I still feel like a AO3 newbie.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I'll have Chapter 2 up in a few days <3

Marriage. 

Of all the things Sandor had expected the little bird to say, it was  _ not _ that she wanted to marry him.

Him. The Hound. 

He sat at a table in the common room of the inn the night after her proposal, thinking of all the qualities, all the talents he possessed that he would bring to their marriage.

He was a damned good killer. Though he supposed she would just say all the better to be her protector.

_ Fuck _ . He took a long pull of his wine.

He was a big fucker--taller than most men in Westeros. Again, Sansa would likely point to that being a mark in her favor, as no one was likely to cheat her with him at her side.

As though to prove his point, a man of slight stature stumbled and tripped over Sandor’s foot, bumping into the table and turning as though to proclaim outrageous treatment by a fellow patron, only to squeal in shock at the dark and dangerous visage Sandor knew he presented. The man scurried off without a word, obviously thinking better of a confrontation with him.

More importantly, Sandor would never lie to her. He told her this back at the Red Keep, and he would never go back on his word. Whatever befell them now on their sojourn to the godsforsaken North--her home, he reminded himself bitterly--he would never keep her in the dark regarding the truth, the things he had to do and the people he had to kill to keep her safe. She would never be safer than when in his company.

He would not hide his feelings from her, either. 

As much as that last bit threatened to sour his stomach and keep him from returning to her tonight, he knew he would be powerless once inside her room.

No, the little bird--his little bird, as it now came to be--had his heart doing turns within his chest with the merest look.

Which brought him to his next quality that she would no doubt deem admirable--he would never hurt her. Truth be told, even he knew this was one of his best attributes. No harm would befall her while she was under his care, least of all from him.

Of course, now there was the marriage bed to contend with. There would be pain there, but of an unavoidable sort. He started to wonder what extent her knowledge of marital relations reached, but he was sure it was not far. The way she had responded the night prior to the touches he'd given her body, she was as new to carnal desires as, well, a woman just now out from under the thumb of all manner of authority. 

Sandor took another swig of wine, swishing it around his mouth, imagining what it would be like to be kissed by her.

Gods, she was glorious. Never before had a woman turned his brain to such mush. While they were on their way to Winterfell and in danger of being discovered, he had to keep a straight head, which was hard when he had her pushed up against him on Stranger’s back day after day. But if ever there was a time he had been about to forget himself, it had been last night.

They'd been so close to closing that distance between them, so close to him feeling the way her mouth would move over his, so close to seeing her body devoid of all clothing, that he had momentarily forgotten himself. 

The marriage proposal notwithstanding, everything else was a blur. It was a small miracle that he had managed to drag his body away from hers lest he take her there on the well-used bed in their room.

It all began yesterday morning as he laid on the bedroll beside hers, his back cold from the early morning and his front on bloody fire with her proximity. There she lay on her stomach, head pillowed on her arms and facing away from him, and all he could think about was reaching out a hand to feel that dip in her back, and to explore the way her body curved--shoulders, waist, hips, bottom, thighs. Just one long glide of his hand would be all he'd need to satisfy his curiosity.

And he was curious. Gods, but he was curious. 

He'd had women before but he had never explored the feminine physique--had never been interested in doing so. He was the same as any other man who would come back to the city after battle desirous of a good fuck. 

The equation was simple. Fight. Fuck. Sleep. Repeat. 

No courtesies, no promises, just a simple exchange of service for coin. It was all the opposite sex was good for, until he met his little bird.

She made him feel things he didn't know his old heart was capable of feeling, things that sometimes scared him. Even with this marriage proposal, she had never spoken of love. She'd instead spoken of her appreciation of him, of how he was the best of men, would make her a good husband, and how she would be a good wife to him. Of this he had no doubt. Of the things she said about him, well… she seemed to have more faith in him than he did in himself.

But love? If he bothered to think about it; if he cared to examine the flares of color that peppered the edges of his vision when he looked at her, or the floating feeling he'd experienced last night when she had gifted him her trust and guided his hand up to cup her breast, than maybe--just maybe--he could imagine what it felt to love someone.

Yesterday morning had been a trial in self restraint, as she'd stretched, rolled, and brought her body back to lay flush with his front. It had been all he could do to keep his body still, his breathing even. 

The curve he had been examining with his eyes was now cradled against his erection, which was blessedly hidden by his leathers. 

He could feel her heat, though, and could smell her hair. With the way his body was reacting to her, it was as though he was a young boy, still wet behind the ears, instead of a battle- and life-hardened man.

It hadn't taken him long to realize he needed to extricate himself from that situation, and he had done so, eager to be anywhere but on that damned bedroll. So he'd gone and fetched the rabbit from the snare he'd set out the night before, only to come upon her when he returned to the clearing where they had made camp, her gown loosened and the skin of her shoulders and neck exposed.

She'd been washing herself, and as he watched she stilled, hair piled on top of her head with one hand, a wet rag in the other.

Then she had turned, and he had almost forgotten that at that point in their association he had promised to take her back to her family, unscathed.

He was sure if he'd spent any more time watching her, she most certainly would not have been unscathed.

All he could think about was her skin--that expanse of ivory spanning the width of her shoulders and the column extending up to the base of her hairline. His fingers itched to touch her, to feel her, more so than they had when confronted with the sight of her curves from that morning. She was like a pile of gold coins to a gambler, a keg of Dornish sour to--

Just then a fight erupted in the dining area of the inn and Sandor's tankard of wine was jostled on the table top, spilling and suddenly soaking the front of his armor and breeches.

The offending drunk was none other than the spindly bastard who had tripped over him earlier, only now Sandor saw the man had been shoved by an equally drunk peasant. Fully aware that he shouldn't draw attention to himself, he left the mess where it was and walked through the throng to get to the stairs. 

It was there that the last image from their time on the road yesterday flashed through his mind, and he almost paused in his ascent. 

Sansa in front of him on Stranger, cradled between his thighs and within the circle of his arms. 

Sansa dropping her cloak because it was a warm day.

Having to then stare at either the mundane trees and wilderness surrounding them, or the enticing expanse of milk white skin above the low neckline of her dress.

And there was even the slightest hint of cleavage between her perfectly proportioned teats that insisted on driving him mad with erotic visions--visions that made it so that he was thankful for the armor he wore, as he was hard with desire nearly the entire day. Fucking hells, he had been painfully hard all day.

Even now, he had to be careful. He was about to enter their rooms and he was hard just thinking of the time they'd spent together atop Stranger. 

His wife. He wasn't sure if he was the luckiest bastard that ever walked the earth, or the most bewitched.

As he reached the top step he looked up, finding his intended standing at the railing, as she had done the night before when she watched the riff raff milling about on the floor below. Only tonight her eyes were on him, her hands gripping the railing in front of her tightly.

Sandor's heart began to thump in his chest. 

She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He spent all day wondering what it would be like to let down her hair and run his fingers through its silken length, and all night dreaming about exploring her skin--every single inch of its ivory splendor. Even while they were still in King’s Landing, he’d had to remind himself of what his head would look like on a pike if he gave into his desire to whisk her away from there. 

Denying himself that satisfaction was a necessity until the night of the Blackwater, when every single person inside the keep was so distracted by the battle that he’d had his opportunity.

With the way she was looking at him he knew, without a doubt, it had all been worth it.

He was powerless to do anything other than continue up the last of the steps to the landing and approach her, using his arms on the railing to bracket her, sandwiching her between his chest and the grayed wood of the banister.

He dropped his face to speak into her ear through the hood of her cloak. 

“Little bird,” he growled in greeting, despite only having been gone from her side long enough to acquire wine and to check on Stranger.

As he came up behind her at the railing, he scanned the crowd, hoping to find what he was searching for.

He was not disappointed.

Sitting in nearly the exact same spot as the previous night was the man who looked remarkably like Sandor himself. The hair, the size, only lacking in scars and with a belly larger than his own; they could have been brothers.

Now if only the redheaded wench would appear, Sandor felt that he was in for another night of exploration with his little bird.

“What are you doing,” he rasped in her ear. Caught between his body and the railing by the stanchions of his muscular arms; Sansa had nowhere to go. His question was a statement, as they both knew she wanted to further experience the sensations he afforded her the night before, when he’d explored her breasts and made her moan his name.

“I’m just… waiting,” she admitted breathlessly, but she leaned into him, her back to his armor, and he noticed now that her gown was unexpectedly lowered; she must have loosened the back in anticipation of what was to come. 

He growled low into the fabric of her hood, and nuzzled at the folds as he pushed his face into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, feeling his beard catch on the fibers in the cloak’s weave. He could smell her through it, could smell the herbs she had put in her bath water, and the sweet scent of her skin that tickled his nose and made him want to scrape his teeth across her skin.

“Are  _ we _ waiting, little bird?” 

He watched as she shivered violently, but her lips parted and her tongue darted out, soft and pink and glistening. It wet her lip before aiding in tucking it under her teeth, and she gave the barest of nods as she looked over and up into his face.

Sandor brought up a finger to touch her chin, eyeing the pale whiteness of her face against the work and sun-darkened skin of his finger. 

“I may not want to wait,” he whispered, and even to himself his voice sounded more hoarse than normal. She was so fucking beautiful, he wondered truly if he’d be able to wait until they were married.

But until then, he was going to enjoy exploring at her pace.

There was a flash of red down below and Sansa followed Sandor’s eyes as they watched the redheaded whore find her man again amongst the throng of people seeking shelter from the storm. It wasn’t long before she was again on his lap, laughing and speaking loudly over the din of voices, though not so loud that Sansa and Sandor could hear from their place high on the balcony.

“Sandor,” came a quiet whisper, and Sandor watched her watch with rapt attention as the man seemingly picked up where Sandor and his little bird had left off the night before--sliding his hands into the bodice of her dress, and just as the night before, hauling one of the round globes out of the fabric so he could lean down and draw it into his mouth.

“Oh my.” Sansa was riveted, so much so that Sandor had a moment to ascertain the situation as he watched the man’s other hand reach down to grip the heavy fabric of the gown’s skirts and haul them up, worming his hand beneath them as he sought out his prize.

Sansa’s voice broke and his name was a gasp on her lips accompanied by the softest moans. Sandor squeezed his eyes shut, wondering how the seven bloody hells he was going to indulge his little bird while preserving her modesty, for this was an opportunity he refused to deny either of them.

He spied a chair in the corner of the balcony, and looked back to the man who now had one hand down the front and one up the skirt of the whore’s dress.

Sandor was hard inside his breeches, thinking of what it would feel like to be doing those things to Sansa. 

She gave a small gasp when he guided her backwards towards the chair, relieved to see that when he sat, they still had an unobstructed view of the couple just below the lowest railing of the balcony.

“Sandor?” She turned back to him, her lips parted and her chest rising and falling inside the edge of her cloak.

Slowly he pulled her back so she was sitting on one of his long thighs. 

It only took a moment to gather her skirts behind her and slip his hand beneath the folds of fabric, knowing that no one who saw them would guess anything was amiss beneath her billowing cloak that now covered their legs.

But Sansa knew, and he felt her tense as his hand palmed the expanse of smooth skin below the edge of her small clothes, just on the outside of her thigh.

“Do you wish me to stop?” 

With every ounce of his will, he hoped she did not.

The shake of her head was a quick flutter, and he was relieved when she melted back into his chest, signalling to him that she was ready for more.  _ More _ .

Keeping his hand to the outside of her thigh, he slid it over her soft skin, down towards her knee where it took a turn, and his fingers brushed the sensitive skin on the inside. Then it trailed back up, ever so slowly, as Sansa’s hand moved beneath the cloak to rest on his forearm.

 

◈◈◈◈◈

 

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat at Sandor’s touch. Her skin felt like it was on fire, as his hand wandered further up her leg until his fingertips pressed against the folds of fabric laying at the crease of her thigh.

Beneath her fingers lay immeasurable strength--muscle and sinew that could force her to bend to his will if he so chose. But he did not, and in fact did the opposite. It seemed at every turn he was asking permission, asking for her acquiescence, her approval. It was as though his only wish was that her desire for him matched his for her.

He did so now, pausing while they watched the woman below, who now essentially lay limply on the man’s lap, her head back and her mouth open in what Sansa decided was ecstasy. 

She watched with rapt attention as the woman’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths as the man’s hand delved into her bodice, his hand moulding and contorting the globe of soft flesh, his own face nearly the same as what she had seen on various men who suddenly had a long-awaited meal placed in front of them. Indeed, his tongue was tucked into the corner of his mouth and he was watching himself touch her as though it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

Sansa breathed deeply and turned her head then, her nose coming close to Sandor’s bearded cheek around the edge of her hood. 

Slowly, for in her mind the decision was a fluid thing--changing, forming, gradually becoming a solid shape for her to grasp--she lifted her face enough to brush the tip of her nose against the coarse hairs, with enough pressure that she had no doubt he could feel her movements. Then she tilted her face down, and up and down again, nuzzling at his cheek until he pulled away slightly and turned his own face towards hers.

And there were his lips, hovering over hers with his own breath hitching as it brushed against her skin.

  
_ He is as nervous as I _ , she thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read this without a fan and a glass of ice water.
> 
> Warning: Threat of spontaneous combustion.

_ He is as nervous as I _ .

The realization spurred Sansa to move one leg aside just the barest amount, and her lips were cold as Sandor’s indrawn breath caused a rush of air between their faces. 

Then, at the same time his hand slid into her small clothes, his mouth lowered to hers. He swallowed her moan as his fingers slid over her mound, his lips moving softly and his beard scratching at the soft skin of her face.

Her first kiss, and it was more intimate than anything she could have ever imagined.

Sansa tried to focus on working her lips in a manner that matched his, but found herself fumbling as he slid a large finger between her folds, finding her slick with arousal and hot with need. Her body thrummed like an instrument as he swept the pad of his finger over her sensitive nub.

Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that his kiss was also soft, also incredibly slow compared to some of the ones she’d seen growing up, scenes she had accidentally witnessed between serving girls and various men who frequented the castle. This wasn’t the heated, frenzied passion of their embraces. The Hound’s kiss--no,  _ Sandor’s  _ kiss--seemed more… tasting. Sampling. His tongue trailed over the surface of her mouth in slow, calculated movements.

She tried squeezing her legs against his hand but it obstructed her action, and instead she gasped as he slid a finger  _ inside her _ , causing a sensation that both shocked Sansa and ignited a need deep in her belly.

He caught her mouth just as it opened for her gasp, and in went his tongue, wet and sneaky and so deliciously intrusive that Sansa whimpered into his mouth.

His response was a growl as her hand came up to suddenly clutch his hair in her fingers, and his own moved inside her, the palm of his hand rubbing against that most sensitive core of her.

She was lost in the moment, so drunk on desire and drowning in Sandor that she wasn’t even aware of the pressing need beneath her bottom until she found her own hips rotating against his palm, feeling the hardness at his groin at the same time she felt her body wantonly beg for his affections.

Her body was a jumble of emotions, her hand clenching in his hair, her legs shaking where they both rested over his strong thigh, and her mouth-- _ Gods,  _ what he was doing to her mouth wiped away all thought in her mind.

Then it suddenly all came together in a rhythm that came to her as naturally as breathing--the soft thrusting of his finger in time with the pressing of his palm, how her hips knew to meet those thrusts, the way his tongue mirrored the pattern her body was being subjected to and the pull of her hand as she grasped his head to her mouth. 

It was a musical recital played upon the instrument of her body, when suddenly his other hand slid down into the bodice of her gown and captured a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and Sansa’s eyes opened wide to connect with Sandor’s as she was thrown over a precipice that she had neither seen nor expected. He growled low as he gazed at her, and she felt his body stiffen behind her, his thighs squeezing hers lightly.

Had his mouth not been on hers in that moment she would likely have drawn the attention of every single pair of eyes in that inn. But Sandor must have known what was going to happen, for he held her in the cage of his arms as they both trembled, eyes close but still focused on hers. He held her torso to his as she shook and quivered, refusing to part their mouths as she cried out and moaned and melted. Pressed against her bottom, the bulge in his breeches pulsed while his fingers drew from her delicious twinges of color and feeling, pinching and rolling the bud of her nipple between them as the finger within her slowed and the press of his palm calmed against her center.

She loosened her grip on his hair as his touch became soothing. His tongue slowed, its caress becoming an unhurried savoring of her mouth, her lips. The hand on her breast eased its concentration on her nipple and instead moved over her skin, intermittently circling the mound of flesh and squeezing it lightly in his grip. 

And his hand inside her small clothes--Sansa’s eyes finally drifted shut as he withdrew his finger but kept up the slow, circling pressure of palm again skin, the heel of his hand brushing against the curls of hair, as though leisurely and deliberately bringing her down from the height of her release.

When at last he drew away from her mouth, she would have expected to see a certain male smugness, a smirk on his face for so thoroughly showing her everything her septa had never taught her.

But instead, there was a youthful wonder in his gray eyes, an astonishment that squeezed her heart on those soft, masterful lips of his. She knew the look was similar on her own face.

What had they just done? It felt like… Like they had transcended the borders of propriety to such an extent that they simply no longer existed, and that all that was left in the aftermath was a quiet joy, a blissful yet subdued exuberance, a tangible connection in the space between his gaze and hers. 

 

◈◈◈◈◈

 

Sandor didn’t know what to do or say, but he knew he had to do something or she would probably think that what had just happened between them had robbed him of all sensibilities.

She would nearly have been right.

He had never expected…  _ that _ .  _ My gods _ , he thought.  _ She came apart in my arms; and I in my own  _ fucking _ breeches. _

He had seen women peak before, and had suspected that quite a few who had done it had been putting on a show for more coin. But still, their acts would have been rooted in truth, and none of them compared in any way to what he had just done with Sansa.

Yes, he was feeling a bit pleased with himself. But more than that, he felt a deep yearning in his soul that was addling his mind and robbing him of his wits--making him release inside his own clothes like a green boy.

He wanted to do that to her again. And again. Over and over, every day for the rest of his life. The feel of her; the feel of  _ her _ \--between her legs, under his hand, knowing just as deeply in his soul that she had never done that before, and knowing that he was the first and only man who would ever touch her in that manner, made his chest feel as though it was going to explode. 

_ Gods _ , was this what love felt like? Where all aspects of one’s regard for another human came crashing down all at once, mixing together like some emotional stew, but full of rainbows and feelings and worries? 

_ Rainbows _ .  _ Fucking hells _ , he was going to turn into a right fucking cunt if he didn’t get his head back on straight.

But he wasn’t about to give up this intimacy they had just shared. She was looking at him in such a way that he felt in her heart she was feeling the same damned thing he was.

Quickly he withdrew his hand and stood, grasping her about the waist when she would have fallen from the weakness obviously still present in her legs.

She softly moaned his name, and that paired with the suddenly unveiled scent of her arousal on his hand elicited such a feral sound to emanate from his mouth that she looked at him for an instant, alarm showing within her gaze. 

But when he bent to capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, feeling as though he wanted  _ more _ \--more of her body, her kisses, her touches, more of touching  _ her _ and of eliciting such moans and cries from her as what she had given him moments ago on that blessed chair--he felt her relax into him and give herself up to the kiss that he suspected both of them were only just now beginning to understand.

A boot to the door of their room sent it flying in and he turned sideways, only depositing her on the floor when he’d kicked it shut behind him to turn and bolt it shut. No one would be interrupting them--fucking _ no one _ .

When he turned to face Sansa she had dropped her cloak on the floor and was standing in a gown that had been loosened at the back, the neckline gaping open to reveal two perfect swells of ivory skin with the slightest amount of shadow between them, enticing him. 

“Little bird.” He attempted a growl and could have sworn it came out half gasp. He strode over to her, eyes on her lips, as he was a man with a single minded determination just then--those lips, on his, mouth open. He wanted to taste her, over and over.

_ Hells _ , he wanted to do everything over and over, so long as he could hear that moan come from her body.

“Little bird,” he said again, dragging his mouth away long enough to start removing his armor. She saw what he was doing and moved to help him, both of them making swift work of it until he stood before her in boots, soiled breeches, and his tunic.

And blast it all if Sandor didn’t feel fucking  _ shy _ in front of her; having never stood before her so open and vulnerable. She had seen him without his tunic on before, once, but this was different. This was him--no teasing, no testing as he had done before to gauge her attraction to him. No artifice this time, just him standing before her as a man, a man whose heart was clamoring to perch on his sleeve.

And a mess in his breeches.  _ Fucking hells _ .

Sandor glanced down at himself, thankful to see his tunic was long enough to hide any evidence of his earlier ardor. 

“Little bird, I… ah… need to change my breeches.” He glanced up at her from beneath lowered brows, silently wishing away the flush he felt on his gods-damned cheeks. With any luck the beard hid it, aided by the dim lighting in their room.

Sansa’s eyes widened as she first glanced to the same area of his body and then up to his face, though he could see confusion mixed with her surprise.

“Oh, yes, of course, Sandor.” She looked flustered, hands clasped in front of her as she turned her back on him while he changed. 

He did so slowly, taking advantage of the moment to study a side of her he had yet to study--the length of hair hanging down her back, the gentle slope of her shoulders where she held them straight and stiff, and that curve at her waist that his fingers, his hands, ached to touch.

His entire body yearned to reach out to her.

So he did, and as she turned she did not put distance between them. He told himself over and over,  _ “Do not bed her, she deserves better,” _ and it stuck in his mind. He would not do that to her.

This creature had entranced him and yet she was a maiden, and he would see her remain as such until they were wedded.  _ Then _ , and only then, would he think of her being  _ bedded _ .

“Sandor, I…” His hands froze in their ascent to her shoulders, coming to rest on them but doing no more as his thumbs swept back and forth over the edge of exposed skin. Sansa looked down at the floor and then back up at him, her eyes darting to the side of the room and then back.

He knew she was nervous--was feeling quite the same himself--but she needed to know she was safe, and that he would never let anyone harm her ever again, a task he had failed quite miserably at when they were still in King’s Landing.

So he tilted her chin up, knowing how fantastically she had responded earlier to his kiss, and he leaned down at the same time she sought from him comfort by raising up on her toes. Their lips met and he brushed his over hers, side to side for just a moment before he parted his lips to capture hers, as she opened hers and did the same. Hesitantly, and with restraint and care, he moulded her mouth to his, bringing his arms around behind her as she gripped his tunic between them.

It was sweet, and Sandor could feel within him--as though he was a person on the outside examining the contents of his own heart--the love he bore for her by that point. 

He poured it out into his kiss, sweeping inside to taste her mouth, gliding across the expanse and groaning when she dared to meet his tongue with her own. He drew her lower lip between his own and suckled gently, bringing his hands up to roam over her back, easing apart the gown’s laces enough that when he stepped back, he was able to nudge the fabric off her shoulders.

Sansa immediately grasped the front to her chest and blushed in the low light of the candles, but Sandor merely brought her with him when he backed up to the small table and sat, drawing her between his knees.

“Sansa, are you afraid?” His voice was hoarse, unable to hide the desire that fairly choked him now. She was so beautiful, hair tumbling down her back and her shoulders exposed from the lowered edges of shift and gown. 

But she shook her head, and he cocked his to the side, not understanding.

 

◈◈◈◈◈

 

Sansa couldn’t help but smile softly. He looked so much like his namesake then, with his head tilted and those warm gray eyes looking up at her. Like the misused dog he had been--loyal to a fault, caring, loving. And she could see it now--the love in his eyes as he looked at her with concern.

It was the gown. She knew it was. As soon as her hands had come up to grasp it to her chest, his demeanor had shifted, but not in the direction any other man’s might have taken. He didn’t turn authoritative, nor abusive when she’d stopped him. 

No, her Sandor had stopped and sat, taking up a position where she was above him and showing true concern for her feelings when he’d asked if she was afraid.

It was silly, that he thought that was still a possibility. She could never be afraid of him.

“No, Sandor. You would never hurt me,” she whispered, and she couldn’t hide the small smile that played across her lips at the notion. This man, who had seduced her with his mouth and loved her with his hands, who artfully strummed her body and brought her to heights she’d never thought possible--no, he would never hurt her.

The corner of his mouth lifted, just a hint there beneath his mustache, but it tightened the scars at the corner of his eye.

“Aye, so you’re shy, then.” His voice was soft and comforting, like a lullabye. Sansa nodded, her smile fading as she was brought back to the issue at hand.

“Might be you need someone to show you how beautiful you are,” he said, his words a statement because they both knew they were true.

For so long she’d been scorned in the Red Keep, beaten and abused by the one person who had claimed to want to marry her and give her children, to make her his queen and spend the rest of their lives side by side.

But she had been cast aside, and yes, her view of herself had dropped to a level that constantly made the edges of her vision darken when she thought about herself.

Sandor had been her only constant during that time--saving her, protecting her, when he could. And now he was here, saving her from a life dictated to her by other men, protecting her from the unknown, and loving her in a way that she now knew she had desperately wanted.

It was that last thought that convinced her to drop her hands, and with them slid the gown and her shift, pooling at her waist as she bared herself to Sandor’s gaze. 

The flash of desire she saw then, in the way he bit his lip and flexed his fingers on his thighs, proved she had it in her to affect him in a way she now recognized. 

Perhaps… She inwardly cringed at connecting anything she did now to Cersei. And yet… Perhaps something Cersei had said was right--that women  _ did _ have power over their men. Sansa could see it now, in the way Sandor’s breath quickened and his eyes roamed over her nakedness.

But where Cersei was wrong, was how she had chosen to use that power. Cersei had used it to influence, and to cajole, and to to leech power from the strong men around her.

Sansa would use it for good, for  _ love _ , and to connect with this man who sat before her-- _ her _ Hound,  _ her _ Sandor.

She took a nearly imperceptible step closer, but the momentary widening of his eyes when they shot up to hers told her he’d noticed. 

But then he seemed to shake himself out of whatever trance he’d found himself in, and he closed his eyes briefly, only to open them to focus on her face.

“Little bird, you will not lose your maidenhead this night, do you hear?” He raised his one eyebrow, and Sansa took a shaky breath as he added, “We will only take that path once we are wed. I’m no proper knight, but this I will not take from you.”

Sansa let out the breath she wasn’t aware was caught in her throat, and she nodded.

“Not tonight,” she whispered, repeating it in other words. Sandor smiled in return.

“Aye, not tonight. Tonight we’ll do other things, if you’d like.”

Sansa stepped closer again, bringing her thighs into contact with the bulge at the apex of his thighs, her breasts now hovering inches from his face.

“Aye,” she repeated, thinking of the man downstairs, and the look on the woman’s face when he’d latched his mouth onto the peak of her breast. “Other things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This has been a fun series to write!
> 
> Many thanks to LadyCleganeofTheNorth for her mad beta skillz <3 She puts up with my worries and emails and writer's block like a champ!
> 
> *fist bump* for you, Lady <3

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, someone get me a drink!


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